EDITOR’S TABLE.

My dear Jeremy,—I wish you a happy New Year! and yet few of us perhaps really know, when we receive this accustomed salute, in what particular thing consists our happiness; or how to appropriate, or more properly to give a designation to, the wishes of the offerer. We all of us have something to hope for, something to strife after, in defiance of the good that Providence has showered upon us—the vain longing, if you please, after something the heart worships—when the heart’s worship should be fully met—and is—at our own fire-side. The moment we shut our door behind us in the morning, we are on the broad sea of human hopes and fears, and looking over the wide waste of waters, fix our minds upon a port to us desirable—having really raised anchor, and left the only haven worth having behind us. A happy New Year, then, to you and yours! God’s benison on you all! and may the shadows, which flit between us all and heaven, rest lightly upon your roof; for in this selfish world, we all have our eyes so much to the clouds, which rest upon us and ours, that it is well that we should at least give once a year, a God bless you! to our fellows—and, taking in a wider range of humanity in our vision, smile kindly, even where the sun is darkest, upon our brother, and wish—nay, is that all?—help him to be—happy.

To be more personal—selfish if you please—in good wishes—we of “Graham” have rather a propensity to the way of happiness—for so rich, so multitudinous, are the tokens in that way, in the shape of both wishes and remittances, that in prospect of our turkey—we should be worse than Turks—to be thankless. Out of the abundance of the heart, therefore, our mouth speaketh—a happy New Year to all of our friends!

In my last, I chose to depart somewhat from my usual course, and instead of writing to you of abstractions, to present to you, all and singular, the claims of the magazines. The lofty position which I assumed for “Graham” you will see more than verified in this number. There is such a thing, you know, as Mahomet coming to the mountain; and even looking, as we have, at the lofty pretensions, and somewhat boisterous boastings of our cotemporaries, we choose, in this instance, to show them that there is a loftier peak than that which their inflated ambition has reached. In short, to show them that while even Homer may nod, he never proves stupid in the midst of supremacy. Having for years stood upon the topmost summit of American approbation, and of high success, we are willing for a while to witness the struggles of the pigmies below; but when their shout of triumph grows too vociferous, we feel inclined to check the enthusiasm with a full blaze of our glory.

Behold us, then, in January; and let your tardy praise step up and do us justice. Is it supposable, or allowable, that with the high position we have attained, others starting from the ground—groundlings as they are—are to split the ears of night uninterruptedly with the senseless jargon of their own praise? When all around us, above and below, we hear the united voices of men, loud, uninterrupted, unanimous in our behalf, shouting out and proclaiming the treason and the folly.

Why, my dear Jeremy, what are the paid puffs—what the puffs solicited by printed circulars—and self-praise thrust upon the timid, to us?—when every mail from old post-towns, and old friends, and from new, brings renewed and additional pledges of the fast hold that “Graham” and his friends have upon each other. Why, in other words, should we fear the vain-glorious boasts that ring in the ears only of the dupes who are deceived by appearances? And if we arouse once in a while, and show our strength, it is but as the lion, to shake the flies from his sides, and to take his own repose securely in defiance.

Look at the present number with which we start the volume for the new year; has not every thing that the artistic skill of engravers could attain—all that the best pens of the country could accomplish, been done for “Graham?” We venture to say that no periodical, that is issued from the press for this month—for any month—will at all approach it in the real beauty and general excellence of its appointments. It is a gem! and a gem far above the ordinary taste of our imitators. Look, if you please, at the skill of Mr. Tucker, as evinced in the leading embellishment (both in design and execution!)—how far is it not above all that is presented elsewhere? Look again at the fine skill evinced in all the engravings of the number! at the exquisite coloring and the beauty of our Fashion-plate and Birds! and tell me, honestly, is there any thing in the tawdry and gaudy coloring of our contemporaries to be spoken of in comparison?

The year that has just closed, although one of great competition, has proven the hold that a long and uniform management of this Magazine has given it upon the American readers. It has not been, nor will ever be, conducted with a fit and flash policy—one year bad, the next good; alternating by neglect or caprice—but ever the same, through all its years, a dignified, sterling, illustrated work, worthy at all times, and in every number, of marked approval and regard.

The truth—or the wisdom—of our course, has been made manifest to us, during the past ten years, by the steady increase and permanent position of Graham’s Magazine; while its would-be rivals are fluctuating between small and large editions, or are dying out around it. We may safely say that we have never yet felt that this Magazine has had a rival in the line it has marked out. Others differ from it in the flippancy of their tone and flimsiness of material or character, or are as solemn as a death’s bell, while the engravings which adorn them are as out of place as flowers over the head of the dead.

Graham’s has always—so says public approval—hit the happy medium between lightness and the more solid and useful; and keeping always in mind the importance of a national tone, has touched the right chord in the temper of the nation, and established itself as the most popular American Magazine of the graceful and elegant class to which it gives tone, and which it has thus far sustained.

Our past year has been one of most unexampled success—yet we have made no boisterous announcements of it—for success with us is no novelty. Our readers must pardon us if we do not grow frantic upon the accession of a few thousand new subscribers, for the novelty of the feeling has been worn off by the constant and continued inducement to its exercise: it has become a matter of course, because we do our duty by our readers always—and on the constantly increasing reading population of this country, our drafts on at least one-third of them, are regularly honored with each recurring year.

But for the year 1850, we have consummated such arrangements with artists and writers, that we really feel not only proud, but inclined to boast in anticipation, and as a great deal will be said by others as to the splendor of their intentions toward their readers, we hereby throw down the challenge and ask them to equal Graham’s Magazine, in the elegance of its engravings, the high character of its literary matter, the extreme beauty of its fashions, and the high finish of the novelties in the way of decorations, which Mr. Tucker is getting up for us in Europe—if they can. They are forewarned—yet they will be shamefully distanced!

You will pardon me, my dear Jeremy, for this seeming egotism, but really, there has been so much disposition shown to set up an overawing shout over “Graham,” by those who should know better, that I have felt it worth while to say EXCELSIOR! over this number, if only to stop the mouths of the deceived and the envious. Hereafter, let no enthusiastic recipient of a thousand subscriptions set up his shout of defiance, for we dislike to bear down ALL opposition.

There is, Jeremy, a vast deal of angling with magazines at this season, and the baits thrown out are of every imaginable kind—and so that the poor fish is hooked, no matter how, he is remorselessly placed in the basket, and the exploit considered dexterous. The false flies upon the waters are numerous, and very prettily do they look too, and yet it does not strike the anglers, that he is a silly fish who dashes more than once at a bait through which he has been wounded. To be explicit—does any man suppose that thousands of people—silly as we all are—can all be gulled a second time? Or to be more explicit and distinct—that in a true magazine, something more is not wanted than flashy engravings, prosy sermons, and monthly vain boasting. There is such a thing as a literary Magazine of high merit—and is there not such a thing as fishing with a pin-hook for people who understand what such a Magazine is? What think you?

I was looking over, the other evening, a series of prints in the possession of a friend, and was much struck with one—which I may yet give to you—in which angling was reversed, and putting the rod in the hands of the finny tribe, they were busily engaged—as fishers of men—in presenting to tempting appetites, sundry bottles of champagne and choice liquors—baits in the shape of gold, and offices of preferment with packets variously endorsed, and trinkets and epaulets to those who might fancy tinsel and glory. It was amusing to see the humans, with what avidity they bit, and how seriously they were bitten. How those rose to the fly who loved a glass—how the miser swallowed the barbed hook, gilt plated—how the aspirant for office dabbled in dirty waters and bedaubed himself for the sake of the seal of appointment—how the lovers of the dazzling and the lovers of glory, crowded to destruction together.

You have a taste for the sport that tickled the fancy of good Izak Walton, I believe, and with your adroit fly have thrown your trout remorselessly and dexterously on the land, and while he panted and flapped himself as a sturdy opponent of non-resistance, have smiled at his efforts with a self-complacency quite refreshing and heroic—with a consciousness of superiority that would have been any thing but gratifying if your victim could have appreciated it. He was the slave of his appetite, and that was his ruin; or if you please, his ambition to rise at a shining mark, was the death of him. The trout has often verified the poet’s line. We are apt to think meanly of the fish for his silly voracity, and yet if the tables were turned, and the scaly tribes were the anglers, they might present baits as tempting and as worthless, in the waters in which we dabble, and chuckle in their sage philosophy with as ripe a reason as we do now. The artist has presented them as fishers of men, and has hit the conceit exactly.

Let us throw the line, nicely baited with gold, among the strictest of the Pharisees, who for a pretence make long prayers, and who hold up their phylacteries proudly, even in the humble courts of the temple. What a flutter and a rustling of garments do we not hear, as the whole tribe, rushing over laws that the Christian loves, dash with hands clutching at the bait, even under the very horns of the altar. Do the eager eyes and panting hearts of that avaricious crowd give token of the soul sanctified and subdued—lost to all self—dead to all covetousness; or does the avidity of the chase, or the reckless thrusting aside of brother, give the looker-on an intimation that the divine law of loving one’s brother has ever regulated the dwellers in the muddy waters in which this bait is thrown?

In yonder foaming, flashing stream, where the waves are lashed into sparkles, and the vast human crowd disports itself, all eager after the glittering baits which are flung skillfully upon the waters by the angler Fate; what a ravenous rush and endless jostle, for the particular bait that attracts each taste do we see. How temptingly—how alluringly does the fly float upon the water to each eye that it is designed to attract—how tame, how dead, how utterly unworthy of notice to all others. The barbed hook carefully concealed, lifts each eager victim from enjoyment to misery—yet each with his own eye steadily watching the fatal bait, thinks himself wiser than his fellows, and dashes at last upon his fate, with a triumphant consciousness of a superiority above his kind.

Yet every eddy, and every nook in the broad stream in which we float, has its bait floating upon the waters—how happy he, who with the fate of his comrades before him, will take warning and be wise.

G. R. G.

Gems from Moore’s Melodies.—Among the novelties and attractions for our present volume, will be a series of illustrations of Moore’s Irish Melodies. We present the first in this number, and will give one in each succeeding number throughout the year. They will all be in the same exquisite style with that now presented to our subscribers, and cannot fail in producing real pleasure to every one who can appreciate what is truly beautiful. “The Meeting of the Waters,” will be followed by “The Last Rose of Summer.”

Premium Plates.—Owing to unavoidable circumstances, our artists have not been able to complete, so as to enable us to distribute, some of the beautiful Prints designed as Premiums to subscribers to this Magazine. They will soon, however, be ready to forward, and subscribers may rely with confidence on having them transmitted agreeably to order.

We have the pleasure of informing our readers that with the January number we commence our “Monumental Series,” or the lives of the Generals of the Revolution who were killed at the very commencement of the struggle, and to whom Congress appropriated sums of money for the erection of a monument to each, but which with the exception of Montgomery has never been carried into effect. Each memoir will be accompanied by a splendid steel engraving from an original portrait engraved expressly for our Magazine.